


Let's Go Round Again (You Spin Me Round Remix)

by brawlingdiscontent



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Con Artists, Internalized Homophobia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-20
Updated: 2019-07-20
Packaged: 2020-07-08 05:57:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19864639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brawlingdiscontent/pseuds/brawlingdiscontent
Summary: After their unsuccessful mission in Vegas, Erik and Raven are back on their con game. But Erik can't get that night, nor the man that foiled them out of his head.(AKA: Erik is scared, horny, and bad at feelings)





	Let's Go Round Again (You Spin Me Round Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [widgenstain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/widgenstain/gifts).
  * Inspired by [You spin me round](https://archiveofourown.org/works/687997) by [widgenstain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/widgenstain/pseuds/widgenstain). 
  * In response to a prompt by [widgenstain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/widgenstain/pseuds/widgenstain) in the [xmen_remix_madness2019](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/xmen_remix_madness2019) collection. 



> Based on widgenstain's 'You Spin Me Round' which you should all read!

From all the way across the smoky bar, Erik recognizes him. 

He and Raven had lain low for months, shaken by their run-in with the man, living off of the money he’d left them--the money they had planned to steal. They’d been back up and running for a couple of weeks, and had left Nevada tracking a particularly wealthy mark. Hence, the bar.

The man turns his head, and Erik catches just a glimpse of sideburn, but he knows. 

The first thing he feels, as time slows down around him, is anger; the emotion bubbling up in him like a cauldron, hot and spilling over. In the distant background Raven is blabbing on in his ear about their next target.

He clenches his fist, and the brass fittings holding the lamps on a rail above the bar--the mood lighting-- start to warp and sag, just a little, their chintz shades wobbling under the movement.

“ _Kurt,_ be careful!” Raven hisses, calling on his latest pseudonym.

Given what happened the last time they met, he should hesitate. Dimly he’s aware of fear and something else coiling within him, and yet almost before he can stop himself he’s heading across the room. Shoes sliding smoothly across the oiled floor.

“Stay there.” He tersely orders Raven over his shoulder, righting the rail and the lamps with a flick of his hand. If they weren’t in public and incognito, he can picture the outraged squawk she would make at his presumption. But he’s not sure he would have heard her, anyways.

It must be the man's ability--like theirs and yet so different, the power to control others' bodies, minds, and movements--that calls to him. That's why he’s so drawn to the man. Why his mind keeps returning to the night that they met, replaying it over and over in his head, wearing grooves into the memory like a record.

He has a clear line of sight to the man’s booth now. Xavier is talking-- _flirting-_ \- with a striking brunette, smiling at her over the top of his whiskey tumbler, a smile infused with all sorts of possibilities, most of a sexual nature. 

For a wild moment Erik considers sticking her with her ostentatious brooch, but it turns out to be entirely unnecessary to announce his presence. Charles looks up on his own, a broad smile illuminating his face. 

“Mr. Weil!" He says warmly, as though greeting an old friend. “How’s the music business?” 

Erik stares him down, reassuring himself with the weight of his cufflinks, his tie pin, the metal that he can call upon at any time to defend himself. He wonders if he should be impressed that Charles still remembers his assumed name. Then again, he figures it’s not every day that the man gets one over on two experienced con artists. 

He wants the woman gone, eyeing her where she leans over, practically shoving her bosoms against Xavier’s upper arm, and searching for how to remove her so that he and Charles can talk alone. 

Charles must be thinking the same thing, for the next thing Erik knows he turns to her and asks: “Excuse me, my dear, could you give us a minute?” 

Erik doesn’t spare her even a glance to gauge her reaction to the dismissal, but she leaves without protest. 

As soon as she’s gone he slides into the booth, sitting across from Charles. With effort he resolves his face, keeping it stiff, matching his crisply pressed trousers. He tries to mold his inner feelings to match his cold, put-together exterior, patching over his molten core.

“Charles. If that even is your name.” The words come out cool, just shy of indifferent. 

“Erik.” Charles says. “You never called. I was hoping you would.” 

The responses that curl angrily on the tip of his tongue-- _because you tricked me, you took control of my mind_ \--shrivel up at the sincerity and genuine earnestness in the other’s voice. His mind flickers to the business card with the messy scrawl across it: _Charles Xavier,_ followed by a phone number and address in Westchester, New York _._ Not thrown away, as he should have done, but sewn into the lining of his suitcase---and he finds himself offering the truth: “I couldn’t trust--"

“---that it wasn’t a trap.” Charles plucks the thought from his mind effortlessly, and not for the first time Erik reflects on his raw power, and shivers at the implications. “…Oh, my friend, who hurt you?”

The anger he’d just now failed to rouse stirs once again, incensed by the other’s seeming pity. 

“What do you want from me?” he snaps, feeling volatile.

“I should be asking you that question. You're the one who came to me.” Charles appears unruffled at his fit of pique. The man's blunt fingers hover loosely at his temple, square but no less appealing for it. The top few buttons on his shirt are undone, and he’s flushed from the alcohol. "You haven’t come to rob me again, have you?” he adds wryly. There's a glossy sheen on his red lips, which quirk upwards as though amused by the possibility.

What _does_ Erik want?

He clenches his fingers, not wanting to answer.

Charles looks at him with glittering eyes, and Erik thinks he can see his pupils dilate. He feels himself getting warm under his shirt collar, and if there were an inconspicuous way to loosen his tie, he would. He knows he can control his posture and his face, but struggles to contain his thoughts as they begin to spiral. 

_Is Charles reading his mind right now? Does he know?_

_How he is haunted by the feeling of the kiss the other had pressed to his lips before he made his escape._ _How he knew then that he wanted more._ _How he longs to feel those blunt fingers at his waist once more, grasping, holding him immobile as Charles takes his pleasure. How he longs to be_ taken _._

He clamps down, hard, mentally, trying to reel the thoughts back in. But it’s too late.

He looks back up at Charles, burning with the shame of his unnatural feelings. But he can’t find a trace of mockery or disgust in the other’s expression. 

Instead, under the table, he feels slow slide of Xavier’s shoe against his as Charles leans forward and reaches out to rest a hand lightly on his thigh. The touch is reassuring, yet placed high enough that it sets off sensitive nerve endings that prickle at the connection. Erik almost shudders as warmth spreads throughout his body from the point of contact, and he grasps his metal anchors tightly, seeking some kind of stability. 

_It’s alright, Erik._

The words are projected into his head, intimate as though Xavier had bent close to speak them softly into his ear. 

He hears the whisper of fabric as he shifts, minutely, to look around self-consciously; wary of being seen--as though the bar around them is full of mind-readers who can tell just what’s going on between the two men--but unable to muster up a protest at the warm flex of fingers against his thigh.

“I run a school for people like us,” Charles offers, at last addressing Erik's question. 

Erik blinks. Like us….

Hazy images of nubile youths, and brawny, attractive young men fill his mind. He sees them fawning over Charles, looking up at him attentively and with adoration, as he gestures dramatically at a blackboard; looking up at him with something more as they ask what they might do for extra credit. His stomach twists and he bites down on an absurd flare of jealousy.

_Not quite what I meant, darling._

Charles’ mental register carries the same rich tone, the warm approbation of his speaking voice. Miraculous to hear it so, in his head. Erik should be angry or embarrassed, but his mind’s still caught on that last word, and the pleasant way the other man pronounced it.

And then his mind is flooded with images: -- _A grand old building, its hallways bursting with happy children. A girl covered in spikes tossing a ball with a little boy who’s levitating. A tall youth bandaging the knee of a small, blue child (who looks a bit like Raven). Two young women playing target practice, one shooting darts from her wrists, another plasma bursts. A vast variety of people with powers like them, of all ages and abilities, living and working together._

Distantly he feels his eyes fill with tears. He and Raven had always thought there might be others like them, but they had never imagined---

Charles looks back at him, eyes bright with compassion. His hand, still resting on Erik’s thigh, burns, but not like a brand. Like a beacon.

_Come with me. Let me show you._

**Author's Note:**

> I found the song that's the fic title by googling variations of the original fic title + again, but it's actually a fairly appropriate Cherik song. Link here, in case anyone is interested (warning for somewhat cheesy 80s music): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AkGZmmrLFAU


End file.
